24 hours
by arduna
Summary: After a spot of trouble in transit, the Inséparables find themselves with time on their hands. But the first 24 hours of their leave don't go quite as they expected. An AU adventure and my first ever entry for the Fête des Mousquetaires contest on the forum.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I had this idea brewing and realised it would fit this month's theme, so decided to be brave and write it for the competition. I'm taking full advantage of the 10% rule - one day I _will_ write a _short_ short story! Hope you enjoy it.

Moderate bad language/blasphemy throughout. Sometimes "bother!" just isn't enough.

 **Twenty Four Hours**

 _Kazakhstan, Tuesday, midnight._

"This really doesn' seem fair."

"What's not fair? We have the rest of the week off, no missions, no contact with Tréville, no responsibilities... just snow, hot tub, time to sample the local... umm... delicacies..." Aramis' voice took on a distinctly lascivious tone as he swivelled to follow the progress of a gorgeous, willowy blonde as she sashayed across the hotel foyer. Holding her head high, she did a good job of ignoring his attention, but failed to notice the change from deep-pile carpet to glossy marble as she entered the bar area, resulting in an unlady-like arm whirling manoeuvre as her feet threatened to slide from under her. Aramis was there in a millisecond, for all the world like a cartoon character as he seemed to simply disappear from the reception desk and materialise at her side, catching her courteously under the elbow and saving her from an embarrassing fall.

"How does 'e do that?" grumbled Porthos, adding ' _Aramis gets all the best girls'_ to his mental list of gripes, just after the ' _it's not fair_ ' one based on the prospect of having to spend a week in a ski resort with a twisted knee watching the others have fun. Although to be honest, ' _Aramis gets the girls_ ' was probably on the list at least ten times already.

Athos carried on ignoring them both, something he was very good at after so much practice, and filling out registration forms for all three of them, sighing to himself. It wouldn't have been his first choice for R&R, this ski resort in Kazakhstan, sharing with his two colleagues. Admittedly they were his best friends – in fact pretty much his only male friends, apart from Tréville who was as much friend as boss. But he'd far rather be at home in his quiet, unassuming mews house in London's elegant Mayfair district, browsing Time Out to find a recital, French language film or play he hadn't seen. Or visiting his French town-house and catching up with some hill-walking. Or anything, pretty much, that didn't involve keeping Aramis and Porthos out of the trouble they would surely find as soon as they got bored. Holidays rarely went well when that pair were involved.

Registrations complete, he handed over their passports to the night porter and turned to help Porthos to his feet. The burly man looked half asleep in the comfortable leather armchair he'd flopped into with a sigh of relief as soon as they'd made it to the hotel.

Their flight from their meeting in Tashkent, capital of Uzbekistan, had been uneventful. However their plan to catch an onward flight to Dubai for a security conference had been blown out of the water when Porthos had taken exception to finding his favourite leather carry-all slashed open near the handle and half his stuff missing. He'd spotted a furtive luggage-handler behind the screens, vaulted the conveyor belt and hurled himself headfirst through the flap, batting aside oncoming suitcases, before Athos could stop him. Airport security had arrived in seconds and it had taken three hours to liberate a seething Porthos from the security offices, by which time they'd missed their onward connection. Even worse, Porthos had then found that his travel wallet – containing his money, tickets and passport – had mysteriously vanished during the fracas.

Another two hours passed merrily with police interviews, form filling, calls to insurers and of course Tréville, and a lot of financial negotiation before they were allowed to leave the transit area and take a taxi to the nearest hotel, which turned out to be in the ski resort just outside Almaty, Kazakhstan's biggest city. Porthos, injured during his tussle with the luggage handler, was clearly not going to be much use in Dubai, even if they could get him a replacement passport in time, and Tréville had correctly interpreted the weariness in Athos' voice. Mentally working out who he could send in their place, he had told Athos to take a week off to sort themselves out.

* * *

Aramis' conquest was virtually sitting on his lap by the time they retrieved him from the bar, but he seemed happy to be dragged away and up to their suite. "Not really my type," he said cheerfully as he bowed low to kiss the lucky lady's hand and promised to call her in the morning.

"What?" he asked as they waited for the lift, catching twin looks of disapproval from both his colleagues.

"We're supposed to be relaxing together," Porthos muttered.

"And what about Anne?" asked Athos, referring to Aramis' fiancé.

"Hey, you know me. I'm happy to admire the goods. Doesn't mean I'm going to buy them," he grinned, waving them both into the lift. "I'll ring her in the morning and tell her we've been called back to the office." Athos sighed. He would never understand Aramis, or how women seemed happy to forgive him no matter how fickle he seemed. He really did only have eyes for one woman but that didn't seem to stop him having fun, and Anne knew him well enough to know he would never carry it too far.

 _Wednesday 9am_

They breakfasted late, delayed by having to help Porthos out of the Jacuzzi bath in his ensuite. It really wasn't designed for men of his stature, and his knee was so swollen that he couldn't bend it enough to climb out on his own. They'd ended up virtually dragging him out head first, involving a fair amount of swearing from Porthos, unhelpful sniggering from Aramis and a change of clothes for Athos before they finally made it down to breakfast. This is going to be a long week, thought Athos darkly.

* * *

After breakfast they arranged a taxi to the British consulate in Almaty. While they waited, Porthos lost a small fortune on the slot machine in the hotel casino, which bothered him a lot less than Athos who had lent him the money. Aramis made a short call to his blonde companion and a much longer one to Anne, and Athos did the crossword in a three-day old copy of the Times, the only English newspaper available.

Eventually a taxi arrived and they piled in, shivering in the cold, damp air outside. The streets were mostly clear but the mountains all around were deep in snow, their peaks shrouded in clouds, and the temperature was close to freezing. Their light-weight business suits really weren't ideal so Aramis persuaded their driver to wait outside a luxury shopping centre he spotted en route while he dragged the others into a ski outlet and bought them all some lined cargo-trousers and smart black ski-jackets – nothing tacky, of course. Beanies, gloves and walking boots for all of them, and a few essentials for Porthos – underwear, razor etc – and they were on their way again, feeling substantially warmer.

En route again, Aramis suddenly asked "Is it Sunday? Or is there a holiday or something?" It was true: the streets seemed unnaturally quiet for a city of one and a half million people. Their taxi driver's English was limited to "yes" and "no" so they couldn't get much sense from him. Athos could see from all their expressions that they felt a growing unease as they picked up on the atmosphere of tension in the town centre.

 _Wednesday 11am_

The taxi pulled up outside a substantial old town house with a courtyard garden in front. Athos paid the driver who shot off the second the money was in his hand, not even stopping to check it was the correct amount, leaving Athos staring after him, scanning the street. There was a black van parked on a side-street, and a couple of cars hummed along the main thoroughfare at the bottom of the road, but apart from that the area seemed deserted.

"Let's get off the street and find out what's going on," said Aramis quietly into his ear. Athos nodded and they moved quickly through the gateway and to the front door, which stood slightly open. Expecting to find security inside, Athos pushed on the door and stepped in, blinking in the sudden gloom. Behind him the others were silent as they all scanned the entrance hall – a massive space with black and white tiles, a polished wooden desk to one side, multiple doors leading off, and an impressive staircase on the far side leading to the first floor.

For a moment none of them moved or spoke. The place was spookily deserted – no hum of machinery, no sound of voices or footsteps. And then, in the hush, a floorboard creaked.

* * *

All instincts screaming at them that something was seriously wrong, the three moved out of the doorway and fanned out silently to investigate. Porthos, barely limping as adrenaline flooded his body, checked the small room behind the reception desk, reappearing after a minute looking shaken, holding an automatic pistol and indicating with hand signals that there was one man in the room, already dead. The others checked most of the doors leading off the entrance hall, leaving only a set of double doors on the right, what looked like a service door behind the staircase, and the upper floor to investigate.

As they moved together to the double doors, Porthos mouthed his findings to Athos. _Security guard:_ _multiple gunshot wounds, very recent. Automatic? Yes._

Aramis placed an eye to the hinge of the doors, which were slightly open, then signalled to the others to advance. Porthos stepped quietly through the doorway, sweeping the pistol from side to side as he moved immediately to the side to allow the others a clear view.

The first thing they saw was a clearly dead body lying opposite the doors, then there was a flurry of movement to their right, a woman's stifled sob, and a soft "Jesus" from a young man in a once-white shirt, who was rising to his feet, bloodstained hands in the air. He'd been crouching next to another body – no, a victim, amended Aramis immediately, seeing her move. Next to her what looked like a doorman was propped up against the wall, eyes closed, and beyond them lay another casualty.

What the heck had they walked into? Athos moved towards the man who had risen. "Are you British?" he asked quietly, studying him carefully, knowing that Porthos was covering him but acutely aware he himself wasn't armed.

The young man let out a breath that sounded like a sob of relief. "Yes! Thank God! How did you get here so fast?" He paused then, as realisation dawned. "Wait – the phones are all down. Oh..." Then another soft "Jesus" as he realised these three imposing men might not be the salvation he was clearly hoping for.

Athos took pity on him as he closed the distance and quickly patted the young man down for weapons, finding none and telling him to lower his hands. "We're military, of sorts, but it's just chance that we're here. Tell me quickly what you know." He had little hope of it being quick – civilians generally wasted far too many words repeating themselves, emphasising their own role in events or gushing about how awful it was, and rarely noticed anything useful – but he needed all the information he could get, and meanwhile at least Aramis could get to work. He nodded to their medic who immediately moved to the first victim's side to examine her.

"Christ... Okay." The man, who looked to be in his early twenties at most, with longish dark hair and tanned skin, swallowed, took a breath, then looked Athos in the eye. "I didn't see it – I was upstairs with the press secretary when we heard shots and screams. He told me to hide with him but I ..." He stopped, eyes distant as he struggled with something. "I decided to come down." Athos looked sharply at him, understanding the hesitation. It would have taken guts to move _towards_ , rather than away from, the commotion. "I heard men in this room shouting, and then there were more shots. I..." Another hesitation. "I was at the bottom of the stairs by then, so I ... _hid_..." (spoken softly, as if ashamed) "...in the cloakroom. I heard screams and ..." (Another deep breath) "... and looked out. There were two men in black, dragging the ambassador's daughter upstairs. They both had weapons – automatic rifles, I think. As far as I know they're still up there, with her."

Athos' eyes flickered. He could see in the youngster's face that he knew exactly what might be happening to the ambassador's daughter right now. The lad's summary had been surprisingly calm and succinct but he was a civilian, and the tremor in his voice betrayed how close to the edge he was as he added: "Can you help her?"

Athos hesitated, looking at Aramis who had now checked all three victims. "Chest, abdomen, leg: all three need to be in hospital, pronto."

"Where's the nearest hospital?"

"I don't know! Hang on..."

The youngster crouched by the woman he'd been helping, speaking to her rapidly in Russian, then asked a question of the man propped up against the wall, whose wound Aramis was currently packing with bandages from the first aid kit the young Brit had been using when they arrived.

"Okay, there's a hospital about a mile from here, across the city centre. Serik – the doorman – says there should be several cars in the garage in the basement which we could use."

Athos noticed the "we" without comment, holding out a hand to pull the lad back to his feet. "Who else is in the building – how many other staff?"

Before the lad could answer there came the sound of a man's shout from upstairs, then a burst of gunfire, then silence. Porthos moved immediately back to the doorway to look, pointing up to the ceiling.

Athos nodded and turned back to the youngster who had gone pale. "Quickly."

"I ... shit ... I think the only person upstairs is Brian, the press secretary. And Ginette, the ambassador's daughter. She's only 16. Shit. Sorry." Athos ignored the bad language – understandable in the circumstances, he thought. "There are half a dozen people downstairs in the kitchens. I sent down everyone who could walk, and there would have been two or three kitchen staff already there." Athos turned but the youngster stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Wait. I think there are more than two of them. When I first came downstairs the two who took Ginette were still in this room, but I could hear talking in the back offices on the other side of the hall. It could have been one of the staff but..." He trailed off, looking unsure, but Athos was beginning to trust this kid who seemed to be keeping his head.

"So there could be four gunmen?" A nod. And a dozen civilians or more, in a strange building with multiple floors and exits. Shit, indeed.

"Aramis, take the wounded down to the basement with –" He looked enquiringly at the youngster, who gave his name as d'Artagnan. Athos paused, full of questions. The name didn't sound English, the lad didn't know where the hospital was yet he seemed to know the consulate and its staff. "Do you work here?"

"Yes. But I only started on Friday."

Oh, great. Still, he'd kept calm so far and there wasn't a queue of volunteers. "Help Aramis get the wounded down with the others. Porthos & I will check upstairs. Aramis, if you can get access to the garage, get a vehicle lined up. Hopefully the trouble is limited to this building, but we can't be sure so keep your wits about you."

Aramis nodded, immediately telling the youngster - d'Artagnan – to find something to use as a stretcher. Athos loped to Porthos' side and signalled him to move out.

 _11.30am_

They rechecked the ground floor first, needing to work out if there were indeed four gunman, but apart from one locked door it was clear. Heading upstairs they found the first room was clearly the press room, full of filing cabinets, TV screens and satellite equipment. Leaving Porthos watching the corridor, Athos immediately checked the equipment, but as he'd feared there was no signal or dialling tone on anything; power seemed to be off throughout the building, either cut by the attackers or through some other trouble outside in the city. What was going on? What were the men after – hostages? Money? Or was it part of a bigger action?

There was an inner door leading off the press room to an adjoining office and Athos checked it, almost tripping over the body that lay just inside the anteroom. An ID card hanging around the victim's neck suggested they'd found the missing press officer, and the reason for the recent gunfire.

 _11.45 am_

Porthos suddenly stiffened as they both heard voices along the corridor. Quickly Athos waved Porthos to come in. Years of working as a team meant the big man obeyed instantly, even without knowing Athos' plan. Moving to his side, Athos pointed to the anteroom and then took up position by the door to the corridor without waiting to see if Porthos obeyed.

He waited until the voices had reached the end of the landing then took one step into view, waited a fraction of a second to be noticed then dived back into the press room – followed by a hail of bullets which smashed into the door frame and the rows of certificates hanging on the nearest wall.

Rolling and scrambling, Athos made it behind the desk just as the first gunman arrived in the doorway, screaming at his colleague then stepping into the room, rifle at the ready as he advanced on the desk which was clearly the only hiding place in the room.

This brought him in line with the anteroom door, which Porthos had left slightly open. As the gunman crossed Porthos' line of vision, he took one careful shot through the gap with the pilfered pistol, which was silenced, and the man dropped with barely a sound. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he waited patiently as there was a call from outside, then another shout, and finally the door to the press room was flung wide as the second man came in, clearly in a panic. Porthos didn't wait for him to step all the way in, knowing he would see the body of his colleague instantly, but stepped out of the anteroom and shot in one fluid movement. The second man staggered, loosing a volley of wild shots that sent Porthos diving back into the anteroom, before the man's grip on the automatic loosened and he slowly sagged to the ground.

After a couple of seconds Athos emerged cautiously from behind the desk to find Porthos on his hands and knees looking pissed off. Athos raised an eyebrow in silent query, grinning as Porthos muttered something about blood on his new trousers. Clearly he'd landed on the body of the unfortunate press secretary when the gunfire sprayed the room.

Moving quickly they advanced down the landing checking every room methodically as they went, each now armed with an automatic rifle. In an empty bedroom near the end, there were clear signs of a struggle. They both looked at the door which led, presumably, to an ensuite bathroom, and Porthos nodded. Pressing an ear to the door Athos heard a soft sound like a whimper from inside.

He tapped, quietly. "Miss? Is your name ..." Shit, he'd forgotten it.

"Gina?" suggested Porthos, looking dubious.

Athos snapped his fingers. "Ginette, is that right?"

Silence.

"Ginette, I'm Athos and I've got Porthos with me. We're British ... army officers, here to help you. The men who took you – we've dealt with them. It's safe to come out now." It was almost true, he defended himself, seeing Porthos' frown. They were sort of army, or had been; and they had dealt with the two who had abducted her, at least.

They heard the door being unlocked,then it opened slowly to reveal a teenage girl with tangled hair and mascara streaks down her cheeks, shaking uncontrollably. At the sight of their weapons she hesitated but Porthos immediately handed his to Athos and stepped forward. "It's okay, miss," he reassured her, holding out his hand. She took it hesitantly, then gulped and hurled herself at him, clinging to him and sobbing silently. Awkwardly Porthos encircled her lightly and patted her on the back, muttering reassurances while Athos tried to curb his impatience.

Eventually it got the better of him. "Ginette, did they hurt you? Can you walk?" An audible sob now. Shit. There was nothing Athos found more discombobulating than a weeping woman. Frantically he looked around and saw with relief a packet of tissues on a dressing table. Ripping several out at once he handed them to Porthos with a ' _do something'_ look. Porthos gave him a very clear _'why me?'_ glare back, but took the tissues and used one to clean up the girl's face, putting the others firmly in her hand and telling her it was time to be brave now. As if she hadn't already had to be braver this morning than in her whole life.

 _11.55am_

With patient coaxing from Porthos he established that the men hadn't hurt her beyond a bruised wrist when she'd managed to break free and lock herself in the bathroom. They had just persuaded her to come downstairs with them when there was a sudden crackle of gunfire from downstairs, a yelp of pain and then a volley of shouting in a language Athos didn't recognise. The girl, who had just managed to stop crying, gasped and buried her head in Porthos' chest, wrapping arms and legs around him like a limpet.

Bowing to the inevitable, Athos signalled Porthos to stay with the girl and crept out along the landing until he reached the banister and could peer cautiously down to the hallway below. What he saw made his blood run cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

 _11.30am_

In the absence of anything better, d'Artagnan had come back with a full-length mirror taken from the wall of a cloakroom to use as a stretcher. Aramis was impressed with the boy's ingenuity: it wasn't ideal, being narrow, short and slippery, but it was better than nothing. They used a curtain to pad it and loaded the woman up first, carrying her cautiously past the foot of the stairs and through the service door they'd noticed earlier. This led to a series of storerooms and another staircase at the end, this one much narrower. Manoeuvring the 'stretcher' with difficulty around the turn, they reached the bottom without actually losing their patient although both men were sweating and nursing bashed knuckles by then. d'Artagnan jerked his chin towards a pair of swing doors and they headed through quickly, d'Artagnan backing through the doors and starting to turn, seeing far too late the frying pan heading for his head.

 _Thwang_! He staggered, desperately trying to keep his feet and hold onto the stretcher, but his legs were unaccountably wobbly all of a sudden and he found himself sinking to the floor.

Aramis had the advantage of looking forwards, and just about managed to make sense of the situation as d'Artagnan collapsed. "Stop!" he called, seeing the frying pan held above a pair of slim arms and start to descend on d'Artagnan's unprotected head for a second time. "Seriously, it's not a good idea to hit your rescuer on the head," he added, realising belatedly that the girl wielding the impromptu weapon would probably not speak English.

"About bloody time!" she hissed, lowering the pan and looking furious. Ah, okay, definitely English, amended Aramis silently, suppressing a smile at the incongruous sight of a lass in a smart black dress walloping people with a frying pan. "And what are you smirking at?" she demanded, raising the frying pan slightly.

"Um... can we concentrate on this poor woman? And d'Artagnan, come to that." The young man in question had pushed himself unsteadily to a sitting position, a trail of blood dripping steadily from a nasty gash on his temple. Aramis had automatically lowered his end of the mirror when d'Artagnan started to collapse, so their casualty was still, more or less, on the mirror. "Grab the other end and let's get her away from the door," he ordered the lass.

She stooped to pick up the end of the mirror that was resting on d'Artagnan's lap, and they carried the woman to where six others were huddled.

"What's going on up there?" the girl demanded as soon as the woman had been settled with her head in the lap of one of the chefs.

"We're not sure yet." Aramis went back to d'Artagnan, grabbing a clean tea towel and holding it against his head to try to stop the bleeding. The young man was looking stunned and in pain, but not concussed as far as Aramis could tell.

"What do you mean, not – "

"Listen, there are still four gunmen in the building so I don't have time for explanations. Stay here and keep pressure on her wound. There are others to bring down. d'Artagnan, can you stand? Cos if not I'll need someone else to help me."

The young man levered himself to his feet, wavering a little and putting a hand on the nearest surface for support. Aramis eyed him doubtfully.

"No one else here speaks English – apart from Constance that is," d'Artagnan explained carefully, swallowing. Aramis looked at Constance who was still holding the frying pan, and decided he'd rather work with a nauseous but compliant head-injury victim than this feisty slip of a girl, no matter how good she was with cookware.

"Right, d'Artagnan, with me. Constance, stay here and keep everyone quiet." He pointed to the frying pan. "Keep that ready but for Christ's sake don't use it on us again. We'll knock on the door before we come through next time."

She nodded, looking slightly abashed, and caught d'Artagnan by the arm as he turned to follow Aramis. "Sorry about that."

Aramis wondered, as they headed back upstairs, if the lad knew he was blushing. "What's Constance's role here?" he asked conversationally as they headed back up the stairs. Yes, definitely blushing.

"She's the ambassador's secretary. Been here a couple of months, I think."

"Feisty lass, isn't she?"

d'Artagnan, still holding the tea towel to his head and looking a bit sick, huffed out a wry laugh. "Mmm. She hits well."

Aramis nodded, pushing the door to the hall open a crack and listening before going through. "What do you do here?"

"Supposed to be an ' _aide'_ , whatever that is. So far all I've done is file things and make coffee."

They went on chatting quietly as they loaded the next casualty onto the mirror, at first so Aramis could assess his head injury and then out of genuine interest.

"Doesn't sound like you're in love with the job yet."

"Oh, it was a stop-gap really. I just wanted ... a change. A challenge. My mum was Russian and my Dad's – was – Italian. I thought I could use my languages, saw this job, next thing I'm on a plane."

"Change from what?"

"Studying. Working in my father's restaurant."

Aramis paused at the service door. "How old are you?"

"Sev – Eighteen."

They headed back down the service stairs, Aramis thinking the lad was younger than he'd realised, especially if he'd only just turned eighteen. "Good celebration?"

"Not really." d'Artagnan's expression turned hard and Aramis caught a sudden glimpse of the man inside the teenage frame.

"Oh?" Aramis left it open, not wanting to push, especially in these circumstances, but something about the youngster intrigued him.

"I was... too busy to celebrate." d'Artagnan raised his hand to knock on the kitchen door but hesitated, looking at Aramis. "I was sorting out my father's funeral and clearing his house. He was shot by intruders in the restaurant. They were after the takings. Five hundred quid." He knocked quickly before Aramis could react, and pushed through the doors.

The last casualty was walking wounded so Aramis said he'd fetch him on his own, telling d'Artagnan to stay in the kitchens with the others. As he headed off however, d'Artagnan followed him out. "Hey, I said..." Aramis started sharply, but d'Artagnan interrupted.

"The garage door is just up there. I thought I could try and get in."

"Try?" Aramis queried, one hand on the door to the stairs.

"There's a keypad."

"Bugger." Aramis followed him further down the corridor.

"It's ok. Each door code is different so the numbers are printed on something nearby like a sign or notice, or no one would remember the codes."

Aramis rolled his eyes at this before remembering it was just as well security was basic, or they wouldn't stand a chance of hacking into...

"Damn." d'Artagnan had found a 3-digit code printed on a notice by the garage door reminding staff in several languages to log cars out when they used them, and had already tried inputting it with no success. He turned to Aramis, looking puzzled. "The codes have four digits but I was told you just add a 2 in front of the code." He tried again with a similar result. Aramis checked the digits on the notice and looked around for any other notices in case they were using the wrong numbers. "You're sure the codes are always printed nearby?"

"That's what I was told at my induction, but the only one I've needed to use is the front door."

"Would anyone else know?" d'Artagnan hurried back to the kitchens, remembering to knock, and disappeared inside while Aramis tried the code again, this time adding the 2 to the end rather than the beginning of the three digits.

"Constance says the first number is different for each keypad. The only ones they know, apart from the main door, is the one for the laundry room and that starts with a 4, and the back door starts with a 1. No, wait!" – stopping Aramis before he could experiment – "apparently it locks you out after five wrong codes."

"We'll have to think of something else then, flag a taxi down or something." Aramis was starting to feel anxious. The others had gone upstairs at least 5 minutes ago and he needed to know what was going on.

"It has to be straightforward or no one would remember them." d'Artagnan stared at the keypad a moment, talking to himself under his breath while Aramis hunted around the corridor again looking for any other numbers. "Why would the main entrance door start with a 2, not a 1? It could be zonal, like numbers on a plan – but then the laundry room is right next to the back door so that doesn't make sense. There must be a logic to it. Something obvious like the way they print the codes nearby, so people can work it out if they forget..." He suddenly snapped his fingers. "That could be it..." He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keypad, then punched a 3 into the keypad decisively, followed by the numbers printed on the notice. There was a beep and the red light turned green, followed by the click of the lock opening. d'Artagnan quickly pushed the door, then picked up a fire extinguisher to prop it open. He turned to find Aramis staring at him. "How did you...?"

"It's the location. Like E for entrance, L for laundry room. Good job it was G for garage though, or it would have been a toss up between V for vehicles, or C for car park maybe."

Aramis still looked blank. "So how does that translate to the number 3?"

d'Artagnan grinned, pleased with himself. "On a telephone keypad the 1 key has A, B & C on it. It's just the number corresponding to the letter for each location name."

Aramis was stunned both at the simplicity of the answer and at the speed at which d'Artagnan had solved the puzzle.

"Good work." He glanced into the garage briefly. "Can you see if you can find the keys for that landrover while I get the last chap and find out what's happening upstairs?" The garage contained a couple of smart black cars with diplomatic plates as well as several that looked like staff cars, but the landrover would have most room and draw less attention than the official cars, if there was any trouble on the streets.

d'Artagnan nodded, already heading towards a lock-box on the wall.

 _11.45_

Upstairs Aramis helped the last casualty to his feet. He had a nasty wound in his thigh but managed to hobble with his arm around Aramis' shoulders. As they passed the staircase Aramis glanced up, wondering what was taking the others so long. Even as he thought this there was a burst of gunfire from the top of the stairs.

Aramis had a split second in which to decide – up, to help, or down? Without a weapon, and with an injured civilian in his arms, he had no real choice. Quickly he shoved through the service door and half dragged, half carried the man down the stairs as fast as possible, meeting d'Artagnan racing upstairs two at a time to help.

"Now what?" d'Artagnan asked as they settled the man in the kitchens, hushing the agitated group who had all heard the new gunfire.

"Stay here. I'll see what's happening."

* * *

Aramis raced up the service stairs, his heart thumping. Nothing like going into a gun fight without a gun, he thought to himself grimly. Back at the door to the vestibule he listened intently but heard no sound from the hallway. Taking a deep breath he pushed it open and slipped through, keeping to the walls. To his relief when he looked up the stairs he spotted Athos heading silently along the landing followed by Porthos, both now carrying rifles of some kind. Presumably the gunfire therefore had been theirs, as they took on the gunmen who'd gone upstairs.

He hesitated for a second. It looked like they had things under control. He decided to start clearing their exit route; if there were more gunmen as d'Artagnan thought, why hadn't they appeared when they'd heard the gunfire? Either they'd left, or they were sneaking about trying to work out what was going on, and he didn't fancy running into them unawares whilst trying to get the civilians out. He would check this floor again: they had to be somewhere.

They were. And they were looking for him.

* * *

 _11.50 am_

Aramis crossed the hallway, heading for the offices he'd checked before down here, moving silently and checking every corner for shadows or movement. He was good at this – the best in the unit in fact. Even so every sense was on the alert as he moved through each room methodically until he had just one room left, a plain office if he remembered correctly, and a final door, slightly ajar, leading to a flight of stairs. Unaware that Athos and Porthos had previously found this door locked, he moved towards the office – and sensed a whisper of air behind him which gave him a split second in which to react. Not knowing who was there or how close, his only option was to hurl himself through the doorway, knowing there could be a gunman hiding in the room but absolutely certain there was danger behind.

His reactions saved him as a burst of gunfire tracked him, wood splintering from the door as his body dived inches ahead of the bullets. He landed heavily on the floor of the office, hands outstretched to break his fall, but he was moving fast and his left arm hit the corner of a desk with an ominous thud. He bit down on a groan of pain and rolled frantically to the side, scrambling to his feet, expecting the gunfire to follow him. But there was shouting now in the entrance hall and no one followed him. Hardly able to believe he was still alive he scanned frantically for a weapon or hiding place, finding nothing helpful. There was no other way out of this room and they knew he was in here.

The shouting continued, followed by another burst of gunfire and a yelp of pain. Gritting his teeth as pain began to pulse from his arm – realising he'd probably broken it in his fall, and thinking frantically that everything was going wrong – he stepped to the door and peered cautiously out, then swore softly at what he saw.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

 _11.55am_

Athos peered over the banister, signalling Porthos to stay back with the girl. He could see a gunman standing in the centre of the hallway, rifle held at his waist, shouting at someone out of his sight. Athos raised his rifle and lined him up in his sights, but didn't dare fire without knowing where the second gunman was. If he had Aramis ... Someone moved slowly into view: not Aramis, but d'Artagnan.

* * *

Aramis could see both gunmen very clearly – particularly the one pointing his rifle at Aramis' chest. The man's face was obscured by a balaclava but his intention, even without speaking, was clear as he jerked the rifle to the side, indicating to Aramis to step forward. Sighing, he put his hands on his head and shuffled slowly through the doorway.

* * *

Athos cursed under his breath as he saw Aramis emerge from the other side of the hall, stopping several yards short of the second gunman who moved briefly into Athos' line of sight. Then he switched his attention back to the youngster, who was walking reluctantly towards the first gunman, his arms held out to the side, palms up in the universal "I mean you no harm" gesture. Athos' gaze sharpened. The lad's shirt had been covered with blood when they first came across him but it was mainly on his cuffs and down his front, and clearly belonged to the casualties he'd been helping. Now he had blood all down one side of his face, and fresh blood dripping from a dark red patch on his right arm.

* * *

Aramis sank to his knees as 'his' gunman screamed at him to ' _get down, get down'_. It was the first indication he had that they spoke any English and he immediately replied, telling the man calmly that he was just a visitor, he wasn't armed... He found himself staring into the barrel of the rifle from about two feet away and got the message, falling silent.

Forcing himself to look past the barrel towards d'Artagnan he saw the youngster's eyes were wide with fear and found time to feel sympathy for the lad. He could only hope his usefulness as an interpreter might keep him alive long enough for Athos and Porthos to pull something out of the bag.

Kneeling on the cold floor, hands on his head, feeling the dull throb of pain from his broken arm, he closed his eyes and waited for his world to stop.

* * *

Athos couldn't see the second gunman anymore but the expression on Aramis' face as he closed his eyes told him everything he needed to know. He had just seconds to get a line on the gunman or lose his friend. Quickly he shifted to the left and leaned further over the banister. There! He brought his rifle up but hesitated, knowing the shot would spook the first gunman, putting the youngster in dreadful danger if he fired. Whichever target he shot, the other hostage would likely be killed. Civilian, or Aramis – who should he protect?

No question really. Deliberately, hating it, he swung his rifle back towards the first gunman.

* * *

d'Artagnan didn't know where Athos was, or Porthos. But he could see Aramis, and had a horrible feeling he was going to witness the man's death any second now. He'd been waiting by the service door, out of sight as instructed but desperate to know what was happening, as Aramis searched the ground floor again. When he'd seen the two gunmen emerge from the door to the staff quarters upstairs, which had earlier been locked, he'd realised the danger and burst out without a thought, shouting in Russian for them not to shoot, just wanting to protect the man who'd been helping them.

The next thing he knew was that there was a terrible pain in his arm and a rifle was lining up on his chest. All he could think of was to go on talking – shouting, if he was honest – and hope that something got through.

He couldn't remember, afterwards, what he said, but something had given the gunman pause and he'd barked out a command in Kazakh to his companion, the man whose finger was tightening on the trigger. Aramis' eyes were closed and d'Artagnan thought for a second that he looked just like the catholic priest of his childhood, kneeling during the service, calm serenity on his face.

Somehow this look of calm helped him; he swallowed the sob of pain and fear that was trying to burst out of him, and controlled the panic in his own voice. He'd been making too much noise himself to hear the second gunman telling Aramis to get down, but he started to doubt his Russian. It was the official second language and most Kazakhs spoke it, but the younger ones often used English or Turkish as their second language.

He switched to English. "Tell us what you want and we can help. We're not armed. That man's a tourist and I work here. You don't need to kill us." Christ, his arm hurt! He didn't want to take his eyes off the gunman but he could feel blood dripping down his hand.

"What you do here?" The man's English was thickly accented but clear. d'Artagnan swallowed.

"I'm an aide – I help the British Ambassador."

Upstairs, Athos listened intently. Dialogue was good, especially in a language he understood. His Russian was limited to recognising a very few words. He willed the youngster to keep talking so he could work out a plan.

"Where is Ambassador?"

d'Artagnan shook his head, starting to say that he didn't know, but the gunman crossed to him in a split second, shouting furiously in Kazakh and grabbing him by the hair, twisting him around and jamming the barrel of the rifle into the side of his head.

"I... oh, God!"

" _Where_ _is_?"

"He's out, he's out at a function, I don't know where. Please..." d'Artagnan gasped as the rifle pushed harder into his skull and the man wrapped his other arm around d'Artagnan's neck, dragging him backwards.

"You tell! Where is Ambassador! Tell now!"

Upstairs, Athos had lost sight of the gunman when he lunged forwards to grab d'Artagnan. He shifted again, trying to calm his racing heart and get him back in sight. Two hostages, both currently out of his sight, both at gunpoint. Both gunmen spooked, wondering where their colleagues were, nothing to lose. He had to make a choice but knew it was an impossible situation. He couldn't see a good outcome. Maybe if Porthos could get to the stairs and take out the other one... He looked around, spotting Porthos peering out from a doorway on the right of the corridor. Damn. He would be in plain sight moving from there if the gunman glanced up the stairs. And there was the young girl to consider; he could see her arm still wrapped around Porthos as he shielded her with his body. Their eyes met and Porthos grimaced. Athos signalled to him to wait, his mind racing. Wait, or go for the shot and put both hostages at risk?

In the hallway d'Artagnan was trying to keep calm as the fist in his hair yanked his head fiercely and his feet scrabbled to keep up as he was dragged across the hall. Where was he being taken? The man's arm was firmly across his throat, threatening to choke him, and he could barely see anything past the sweat stinging his eyes.

He'd kind of forgotten that the other two had gone upstairs. So much had happened... but in his awkward position, head forced backwards, neck muscles straining, he caught a movement on the landing as he was dragged past the staircase. Bloody hell...! Thoughts spinning around his head as the grip on his throat tightened, he blurted out:

"I can find out where he is! The Ambassador, I can tell you where he is!"

"Where?" demanded the voice in his ear. The arm around his throat tightened and d'Artagnan gagged, panicking as his vision darkened.

"He can't tell you if you suffocate him," came a calm voice from behind them. Aramis. d'Artagnan relaxed a fraction, which perhaps reassured his captor who responded by loosening his chokehold.

Aramis, never a patient man unless he had a snipers' rifle in his hands, had grown tired of waiting for a bullet to smash through his skull and opened his eyes as d'Artagnan switched to English. Good lad! The second gunman glanced frequently over his shoulder as the situation developed and Aramis thought he might be able to take advantage of the man's distraction. Then the first gunman got d'Artagnan in a chokehold and he knew he had to speak up, dragging his own captor's attention back to him but at least giving d'Artagnan a chance to speak. He hoped the lad had a plan and wasn't just blurting anything out to save himself; he'd seen plenty of hostages killed when an attempt to bargain had gone wrong.

"I can find out. It's written in the Ambassador's diary, upstairs."

Athos stiffened, drawing back slightly from the banister. Porthos, further down the corridor, couldn't hear clearly what was going on, and leaned out from his doorway. Athos beckoned to him. Porthos made a face, indicating the girl still clinging to him. Athos hoped he could persuade her to let him go – and fast. He had no idea what d'Artagnan had in mind but if they did come upstairs, he would need to be ready.

"Where?"

"In the Ambassador's office, at the top of the stairs." Athos looked automatically at Porthos who was standing in the only other room at the top of the stairs, but Porthos looked startled, glanced over his shoulder then shook his head at Athos, shrugging. Clearly the room he was in didn't look like an ambassador's office. So was d'Artagnan confused, or...

"It's the first room on the left, at the top of the stairs." d'Artagnan's voice came clearly up from the vestibule.

He didn't sound confused. Athos exchanged another glance with Porthos, adrenaline flooding through him as he realised what the youngster was doing – steering the gunman into the press room. The only room up here with a double entrance.

Across the corridor Porthos seemed to catch on too. Bending he whispered urgently into the girl's ear, unpeeled her arms and pushed her gently into the room, closed the door silently, then shot across the corridor and through the door of the room adjoining the press office, where he'd hidden before.

Nodding in appreciation, Athos backed quickly into the press office itself as footsteps sounded on the stair case. He just had time to pull the door to as the double-headed shadow rose into view, resolving itself into a black-clad gunman and a very frightened looking young aide.

Athos crossed swiftly to the desk and crouched behind it for the second time in twenty minutes, just in time. The door was kicked open and d'Artagnan was shoved through unceremoniously, his eyes going straight to the body still sprawled on the floor in front of him. With the rifle pressed to his head, he held himself stiffly, breathing fast and shallow. _Keep your head, lad,_ Athos urged him silently, watching from under the cover of the desk.

There was a burst of swearing from the gunman as he saw the body of his comrade, but he didn't lose his focus on finding the Ambassador. "Where is diary, quick!" The gunman pushed d'Artagnan roughly forward so he almost stumbled over the body, having to put his hands out to the desk to catch his fall and stifling a gasp of pain as his injured arm took his weight.

"Let me find it." Athos could hear the rustling of paper on the desk. Readying himself he checked to his left, seeing a faint outline through the two inch opening in the doorway: Porthos was there. Taking a breath, he said one word: _now._

Everything happened very fast. d'Artagnan lurched backwards as Athos rose from behind the desk, but this left him obscuring the gunman so Athos didn't have a clear shot. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for the gunman who was already swinging his rifle towards Athos before Porthos could burst out from his doorway. Two guns fired simultaneously and d'Artagnan flinched as something seared along the side of his face; Athos dived sideways, and the gunman disappeared in a spray of blood.

d'Artagnan found he couldn't breathe and he staggered backwards on legs that didn't belong to him, breath coming in short, shuddering gasps. Then strong arms caught him from behind and he convulsed, struggling to free himself until a gentle voice told him "Steady, lad. Forgot yer name but you're alright, just be calm."

d'Artagnan tipped his head back, still trying to drag air into lungs that felt tight. Over his head loomed Porthos' reassuring features, looking ridiculously calm himself.

"Athos? You there?"

"Um." More of a groan than a word.

"Bollocks." Porthos let go of d'Artagnan, plonking his rifle on the desk and pushed past him, leaping over the body of the gunman he'd just shot in the head. d'Artagnan's stomach lurched and he looked away, swallowing convulsively as he tried to steady his breathing. Gradually the nausea receded and he became aware of Porthos talking quietly to Athos, somewhere out of sight behind the desk. d'Artagnan moved on wobbly legs and found Porthos kneeling next to Athos, both hands covering a bleeding hole in the latter's shoulder. Hearing movement Porthos called over his shoulder: "Get Aramis, quick as you can."

Aramis! d'Artagnan had forgotten all about the second gunman and Aramis kneeling on the cold tiles below. He turned and headed for the stairs, almost stumbling in his haste. He hadn't heard another shot, had he? Racing down it occurred to him, belatedly, that it might be sensible to go slowly and assess the situation but it was too late: his feet had already taken him two-thirds of the way down to where he could see...

... A silent battle taking place. Aramis had hold of the rifle with both hands, still on his knees, but was arched backwards, the rifle pushing viciously against his throat as the gunman put his whole weight on it, towering over him.

d'Artagnan skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs. The gunman's back was to him, but he couldn't believe the man hadn't heard him thundering down... maybe the growling noise he was making had covered his approach. d'Artagnan looked wildly around for a weapon, wishing he'd picked up Porthos' rifle but knowing he wouldn't have a clue how to fire it. Spotting the bronze bust of President Nazarbayev on a pedestal to his right, he took two cautious steps, snatched it up then nearly dropped it as the weight dragged brutally on his wounded arm. Gritting his teeth, he took another step closer, and another...

At the last second the gunman sensed his presence and turned his head – straight into the swing d'Artagnan had already started. The bust met his skull with an impact that juddered up d'Artagnan's arm sending pain shooting up to his shoulder and down to his wrist. The gunman's head lurched sideways, his body following in a graceless collapse, yanking the rifle from Aramis' grasp and letting lose a final spray of bullets as he slumped to the floor. Aramis hurled himself forwards and knocked d'Artagnan out of the way, both landing heavily in the sudden silence as the rifle fell from the gunman's grasp.

In the deafening hush that followed, Aramis rolled off d'Artagnan and lay on his back beside him for a second, breathing heavily. "Well, that was fun," he said at last, pushing himself up carefully with his good arm and poking d'Artagnan in the ribs as he lay on his back, one arm across his eyes. "You ok?"

d'Artagnan lowered his arm. Aramis could see tears in his eyes but his voice was steady enough as he answered: "I'm fine, thanks. You?"

Aramis started laughing, not just because the lad clearly was _not_ fine – blood was oozing from a new gouge on his cheek and his right sleeve was soaked in blood – but at the polite Englishness of his response. d'Artagnan stared up at him as if he was mad.

"What's happening?"

Porthos' head peered over the banister.

"All good here – you?" Aramis answered, rising to his feet and reaching a hand down to help d'Artagnan up.

"Athos needs you."

"Shit." Aramis abandoned d'Artagnan instantly, racing to the stairs and climbing them three at a time, calling over his shoulder to d'Artagnan to check those in the kitchen and telling Porthos to find another first aid kit.

d'Artagnan was left standing in the vestibule of the house on his own, out of danger for the first time in an hour. He couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Apart from the bust on the floor – oh, and the groaning body beside him – there was little sign of anything having happened in the vestib... groaning? The man was still alive? He hadn't killed him! Quashing a feeling of utter relief which was quickly swamped by panic, d'Artagnan loped into the reception room where he'd treated the original casualties, grabbed a curtain tie and ran back to the gunman, sitting on him to hold him still while he tied his hands.

Porthos appeared on the stairs as d'Artagnan finished, one reassuring arm around the young girl. Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Porthos nodded his approval at the lad's resourcefulness. d'Artagnan pushed himself to his feet, suddenly feeling incredibly weary, and blinked around trying to remember what Aramis had asked him to do.

"Hey, what's yer name again?"

Porthos was standing in front of him, looking concerned.

"d'Artagnan."

"That's right. So where are the others – downstairs?"

"Yes – I'll show you. Is Athos ok?"

"Shoulder wound. He'll be fine, Aramis is a dab hand with a bandage. Come on, let's get you both out of 'ere."

* * *

Three hours later d'Artagnan was ushered out of a cubicle in the local hospital which had been overwhelmed with casualties, not just from the embassy but elsewhere in the city. His head had been cleaned, part of his hair shaved – to his complete annoyance – and the wound on his temple stitched. He'd had butterfly stitches applied to the cut on his cheek where the bullet that hit Athos had grazed him first. The gunshot wound in his arm was cleaned and bandaged. He'd been given shots of tetanus and antibiotics, and finally – thank God! – some painkillers which, so far, had done absolutely nothing to counteract the throbbing in his cheek, the sharp pains pulsing down his arm and the pounding headache. He emerged blinking into the corridor, feeling overwhelmingly weary, looking around for a phone then wondering who on earth he was going to call.

"There he is!" A cheerful voice on his left: Aramis, arm in a back-slab and sling, waving at d'Artagnan with his good arm. Feeling ridiculously thankful to see a familiar face, d'Artagnan headed towards him, finding Porthos sitting next to him in a waiting area.

"How are you doing, youngster?" rumbled Porthos, holding out a cup of something. d'Artagnan sank into a seat and took a sip. He had no idea what it was, but it was warm and sweet and he took a couple of gulps gratefully.

"I'm..." he started, stopping in surprise as they both chorused: "Fine!" He laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Okay, I've... I'm a bit sore but I will be fine. How's Athos?"

"He's in surgery, but apparently the bullet didn't hit anything too vital. He's tough, he'll be ok."

"Do you know what happened yet?"

"We've spoken to our boss, who's been liaising with the local police and military. Turns out we got caught up in a bit of a rebellion against the President. Some left-wingers tried to take hostages in various parts of the city. Got control of the state media building for a while. Quite a few casualties and around 20 dead at the moment," Aramis explained succinctly.

"God!" d'Artagnan was silent for a moment, then: "Is everyone from the embassy okay?"

They'd used three vehicles in the end, with Porthos, Aramis and Constance driving, to get everyone away from the building, taking the injured to hospital and the othe **r** s to a nearby hotel.

"Constance is fine."

d'Artagnan blushed again, looking impossibly young.

"Don't tease 'im, Aramis. Everyone's fine, pup." Porthos shrugged as the others looked at him quizzically. "Sorry, I'm not great with names." Aramis grinned, thinking the nickname suited the lad. d'Artagnan just sighed, suddenly desperate to sleep. As if reading his mind, Porthos stood. "Let's get you out of here. Aramis, you too. I'll drop you both off at the hotel and come back to check on Athos."

d'Artagnan looked worried. "I don't think ... I can't afford a hotel. I haven't been paid yet and –"

"Don't worry, we'll sort that out. Come on."

d'Artagnan didn't remember much about that journey, and barely stayed awake long enough to find the bed, when Porthos opened the hotel room door for him. He simply lay down on it, and went to sleep instantly.

* * *

He woke to a dim light in the room. After a moment's confusion the events of the day flooded back and he stirred, finding to his bemusement that he was lying under the duvet, dressed in – he investigated – in pyjamas. Huh?

A voice from the other side of the room interrupted his confusion.

"Yes, 'e's 18. No, 'e kept really calm. Worked out the key code for the garage, thought on 'is feet with a gun to 'is head, led the gunman to where Athos an' I could get 'im between us – smart. Got the last gunman off Aramis too, then tied 'im up when 'e realised 'e was comin' round. Yes, definitely. Speaks Russian and Italian. No, no idea but... Great. Thanks. Yeah, I know, it wasn't exactly what we had planned either. Fine R&R you arranged for us! Yes, we'll let you know as soon as we're on our way home. Cheers."

The click of a phone being replaced, then a voice directed his way. "You 'ungry?"

d'Artagnan propped himself up on his good arm, suppressing a groan as everything started hurting anew. Instantly someone plonked onto his bed on the other side, startling him. "Only me," reassured Aramis, holding out a couple of painkillers and a cup of water. d'Artagnan took both gratefully then answered the first question. "Yes... I think so."

The sound of large hands being rubbed together reached his ears. "Excellent, we've ordered already, should be here any... Ah!"

Aramis stood to answer the knock on the door, revealing a porter wheeling a large trolley covered in steaming platters, and a weary-looking Athos standing behind him.

"Athos! I knew they wouldn't manage to keep you in overnight!" Aramis waved the porter in and slung an arm around Athos, dragging him in and plonking him in an armchair before he could protest. A few moments later the room looked completely different, Porthos having put all the lights on and rearranged the furniture to give them a central table. Telling d'Artagnan firmly to stay put, he loaded a plate with potato skins, hamburger and chips, relish and coleslaw, and told him to eat up. Aramis handed a plate of steamed fish and rice to Athos, who noticed d'Artagnan staring. "They know me too well," he confided. "Can't abide junk food."

d'Artagnan finally found his voice. "What was that phone call about?" Athos looked at Aramis, who looked at Porthos.

"Ah. 'aven't had time to run it by you yet, Athos, but when we were briefin' Tréville it occurred to me - "

"Oy! It was my idea!"

"I 'ad it too, just didn't 'ave time to tell you," protested Porthos sounding like a 5-year-old.

" _What_ occurred to you both?" asked Athos, patiently.

"That 'e'd be a perfect addition to the team!" Porthos ended with a flourish in d'Artagnan's direction.

It took d'Artagnan a moment to realise they were all looking at him. He looked from one to the other, blankly.

Athos began to laugh. "I don't suppose you've run it by him yet, either?"

"He's only just woken up, to be fair."

"Well, d'Artagnan? What d'ya reckon?"

"About what?" d'Artagnan had a tiny inkling but thought he had to be mistaken.

"To you joinin' our team? You're a mite young, to be honest, and Tréville will take a bit more convincin', but with the three of us vouchin' for you..."

"... and the way you handled yourself today..."

"... and with a bit of trainin'..."

"Let him think!" Athos sounded exasperated and amused all at the same time.

"But I don't even know what you do!" protested d'Artagnan.

"Yes you do. It's what we did today. Usually with a bit less blood – "

"And not so many injuries!" added Aramis, looking around the room pointedly.

"But that's basically it. Keep civilians safe, catch the bad guys..."

"There's a lot of boring paperwork too. Don't forget that part," interjected Athos, drily.

"Yeah, but mostly we just 'ave fun!" protested Porthos as if the whole thing was obvious.

"So... are you offering me a job or something?" d'Artagnan couldn't quite work out what was going on.

"Well, probably more of the 'or something'. You'd have to pass the aptitude tests, do the training and take a final evaluation but – yes, basically. So – what do you say?"

They all looked at him again. He was conscious that he was sitting in bed, in a strange hotel room, naked from the waist up, sporting bandages and stitches, having nearly killed one man and seen – how many others? – killed, being offered a job by three men he'd never met before today, with a firm or organisation whose name he didn't even know.

"Yes please!"


End file.
